The Deed of Paksenarrion (18 page)

Donag just grinned, shaking his head. Paks watched him in surprise. When he wasn’t scowling, he had a pleasant face: rough and weathered, but humorous. He caught her look, made a wry face, and went back to his grin. “I’m not always a grouch, no—if that’s what you were thinking. And perhaps you’re not as bad as I thought—if you behave.”

“I’m going down to the
Dragon
,” said Stephi. “Why don’t you come, Donag? I’d like to see what other rumors you can pick up.”

“Well—I’m on late watch. But if we don’t stay long—” He looked at Paks, then back at Stephi. “I’ll come. But you, Paks, don’t be blabbing all I told Stephi, and be sure you’re ready for watch on time.”

“Yes, sir.” Paks watched the two men leave with mingled relief and astonishment.

From that time on, she had little trouble with Donag, though he still thumped her during drill until she found speed she had never thought to reach. In those weeks, a few of the younger veterans made cautious overtures of friendship. Paks was glad to spend time with Canna Arendts, whose tales of her first year’s battles were much more exciting than Donag’s dry instruction. Canna’s best friend had died, and she enjoyed having someone to tell her stories to, someone who would listen by the hour. Saben liked her too, and Vik said he liked having a woman around who was not taller than he was—which made them all laugh wildly, the last night in Valdaire, as he craned his neck pretending that Paks and Arñe were seven feet tall. Canna laughed too, dark eyes dancing. She was lean and quick, and Paks felt clumsy and huge beside her.

On the road again, marching south, Paks could think only of the fighting to come. She had thought herself close to fighting before, but this time she was. This was real, marching with battle-scarred veterans around her, and soon the fighting would be real. No more drills, no more instruction. In the back of her head the vision rose of herself with a great sword, leading a charge. She knew it was nonsense, yet—this was a long way from Three Firs. Anything could happen. Almost anything. She was marching as file second to Donag—that had been a surprise. Most of the recruits were slotted further back in the column.

After several days of marching, they came to the fields where the first battle would be fought. Across a wide space was a dark mass: the enemy army.

“Militia,” muttered Donag contemptuously. “We won’t have much trouble with them, unless they’ve a surprise for us.” Paks did not dare ask how he knew. She said nothing at all. “Just remember that even militia can kill you if you’re stupid,” he told her. “Stay in formation—remember the strokes—and listen for orders.”

To her surprise, they set up camp that afternoon as if it were any other day on the road—except for the surgeons’ area. Paks eyed the rows of straw pallets and the neatly arranged tents with distaste. She had heard stories about the surgeons, too. The recruits got another lecture, from the captains, and then a final one from their own sergeants.

“And after that they expect us to sleep?” asked Arñe. “I can’t keep my eyes shut an instant, I know.”

“The followers of Gird—” began Effa. Arñe interrupted.

“Effa, you Girdsmen may be all you say—brave, wise, and everything else—but I’m not one of you. If you can sleep, fine. Do it. As for me, if the gods guide my strokes tomorrow, and bring me safe through, then I’ll sleep—”

“And I.” Saben’s face was more serious than usual. “I find I’m thinking how peaceful it is in the cowbyres, on a summer’s evening.”

Paks thought of sheep, fanned wide on a slope and coming together at the foot. The quick light clatter of their hooves, the anxious baaing, and the wide silence over all.

The next morning they were wakened before dawn, and barely managed to choke down breakfast.

“Eat, fools,” said Donag, scowling again. “You can’t fight empty. You’ll wear out. And be sure your flasks are full, and drink so you slosh. Hurry now.”

And before the sun cleared the low hills east of them, they were standing in formation, swords drawn, waiting.

As the sun rose higher, Paks felt sweat crawling through her hair under her helmet. The dust cloud ahead came closer as the Czardians advanced. Somewhere off on the right wing, a confused clamor began: crashing, metallic, and a deep roar that seemed to shake the earth. Her heart pounded; her sword grip felt slippery. She opened her mouth for air. Surely Stammel would tell them if they were supposed to do anything. She watched his unhurried stroll back and forth in front of their ranks. Behind him the mass of enemy came closer and closer. Someone in the ranks let out a sobbing groan.

“Take it easy, now,” came Stammel’s rough growl. “Remember your drill. I’ll tell you when to worry, recruits. And you veterans, stop acting up to scare the new ones. I’ll dock you a day’s pay, if anyone else tries to unsettle ‘em.” Paks took a deep breath and tried to relax, flexing her hand on the sword. The noise and the dust came closer. One of the captains trotted along the front of their line and paused to speak to Stammel. Paks saw him nod. Stammel swung round to face them; Paks felt him capture and release her gaze before giving the expected order. At his command they began to march forward, the corporals chanting a ritual encouragement and reminder.

“Stay in formation now, file two; keep your swords up; keep your shields up and ready; steady march, slow march, count y’r cadence, slow march; file three, pick it up; steady march; no crowding there, third and four! Remember your shields, up and out—” And then the front rank was engaged with the enemy, and the noise of battle drowned out their voices. Paks suddenly found enemy swords thrust at her as the first rank moved into the enemy formation.

She blocked one with her shield, and hacked awkwardly at another with her sword. Only her longer reach kept her alive as her more dexterous opponent disengaged and thrust again. She remembered the correct move, this time, and slashed his sword away. The attacker on her left was now fully engaged with her shield partner, so she could use her own shield for protection against the man in front. She blocked another thrust, and tried an overhand swing. Her opponent’s shield caught her blade; for a terrifying instant she could not wrench it free. She was wide open to his sweeping stroke; though she deflected it with her shield, the blade slid down and sliced into her leg through the greaves.

Paks staggered as the blade bit in, and that jerk freed her own sword. She lunged straight ahead, thrusting at the man’s belly. Her longer reach worked; her sword slid into him. Before she could follow up her thrust, someone ran into her from behind, and knocked her off balance. She fell among the stamping feet and swinging blades, confused by dust and noise. The man she’d stabbed was also down—she saw his face, barely a foot from her own, and the dagger in his hand. She dropped her sword and grappled with his knife hand, trying to free her left arm from the shield so she could draw her own.

Suddenly his arm went limp; she saw another blade deep in his body. She could not see who had done it. She could not see anything but shadowy legs in the dust. She groped about for her own sword, found it, and tried to get to her feet. Bodies shoved at her from all directions. Her eyes were clogged with sweat and dirt; she blinked furiously, then realized she was surrounded by fighters in the Duke’s colors. She tried to pick out where she was in formation—or anyone she knew—but nothing looked familiar. Out of the whirling dust came more fighters in blue and yellow; around her rose screams and bellows of rage. She found as she thrust at one of the enemy that her own throat was raw with yelling—and still she yelled. Her shield arm ached. Her sword weighed as much as a full-grown sheep. Her left leg was on fire. She kept thrusting, countering with shield, thrusting—her head splitting with the noise and dust. She took in great gulps of air, but found herself choking on dust, coughing, sobbing against the coughs. She nearly went down again, slipping on something underfoot, but someone grabbed her arm and kept her upright.

“Go on! Forward!” yelled someone in her ear, and she went on, squinting through the dust for yellow and blue to strike at, her sword and shield work now mechanical, as in drill.

At last there seemed to be less dust in front of her, and no blue and yellow. Someone grabbed her arm; she raised her sword to strike, but Stammel’s voice penetrated the din. “Paks. Stop! Paks!” Her sword arm fell as if someone had cut the tendons. She stood, half-blinded by dust, gasping for breath, shaking—at last she could see Stammel, and met his eyes. “All right, Paks,” he said, more quietly. “You’re wounded; go to the rear.” She could not move. The light failed, as if clouds had come over the sun. She heard Stammel’s voice, now urgent, but could not follow what he said.

Someone’s shoulder was under her arm, supporting her; someone’s hands fumbled at the buckles of her shield. She tried to stop them, but could not seem to move well. Voices talked back and forth across her hearing. Nothing made sense. Suddenly someone shoved what felt like a length of wood into the wound on her leg; she tried to push them away from her, all of them, but found herself lying flat on the ground with no memory of how she’d gotten there. One of the veterans held her shoulders down; sweat dripped off his nose onto her face. When he saw her watching him, he said “Sorry,” but kept his weight on her. Someone else was holding her legs. Her injured leg throbbed fiercely. A surgeon in his dark robes bent over it. A hand appeared out of nowhere, with a kerchief dripping water.

“Here,” said a voice. “Chew on this.” She opened her mouth, and he stuffed the wet rag in. At once something—she thought the same length of wood—bored into her leg. She twisted against the hands that held her, to no avail. The pain went on, and when it finally stopped was replaced by a bath of liquid fire. Paks closed her eyes, grinding the rag with her teeth. Something tugged at her leg—would tear it off, she thought—but ceased before it came loose. She opened her eyes. Tears blurred her vision until she blinked them away. Her leg still throbbed, but farther away—a spear-length or so, maybe. The veteran released her shoulders; the surgeon was already walking away. She gagged on the wet lump of cloth in her mouth, and a hand came to pull it out.

“There,” said the voice. “That’s over.” Paks tried to twist her head to find the speaker, but it was too much effort. “You need some wine,” the voice went on. “That will ease the pain.” She tried to speak up, to refuse, but a strong arm heaved her head and shoulders up, and a wineskin pressed against her lips. When she opened her mouth to protest, a squirt of wine filled her mouth; she had to swallow. The wineskin was tooled in gold, she noticed, as another squirt of wine filled her mouth—then another. The pain receded farther, and a dark haze spread across her vision.

Paks woke to darkness and the sounds of pain. Far away to her left was a bobbing yellow glow. She felt light and crisp except for her injured leg, a cold weight dragging at her. The glow came closer, paused, came closer. She realized it was a lantern—in someone’s hand—someone coming near. She felt very clever—she knew what was happening, someone was visiting the wounded. Then she realized she could not find her dagger. Had she been captured? She tried to think as the lantern came nearer. Her leg began to throb, but it didn’t bother her. She had just decided that it wasn’t really attached at all when the lantern paused beside her. She squinted up, trying to see past the light to the person who held it. “Hmm,” said a voice she thought she should remember. “Looks a bit feverish, this one.”

“How do you feel?” another voice asked.

Paks worked her tongue around in her dry mouth until she could speak. “I’m—all right.”

“Do you feel hot?” asked the second voice.

At the question Paks realized that she was cold, cold from the bones out. She started to answer, but a violent chill racked her body; her teeth rattled like stones in a sack. Abroad hand touched her forehead.

“Fever, all right,” said the first voice. “Best dose her now, and be sure she’s checked on. We’ll use what we have to on this one.”

“She needs to drink,” said the second voice. “She’s dry. Here, now—” he said to Paks. “We’ll lift you up, then I want you to drink all of this.”

One of them lifted her shoulders and steadied her head; a jug came to her lips. Paks sipped; it was water. Despite the shaking chill and rattling teeth, she managed to empty the jug.

“Now then,” said the voice. “Swallow this.” Paks had half-drained the cup before the taste reached her; she gagged and tried to spit it out, but hands restrained her. “Finish it!” said the voice, and she choked down the rest of that bitter brew. “Now a swallow of numbwine.” Paks swallowed that, and the arm behind her eased her back to the straw.

“Sleep well, warrior,” said the first voice. Paks felt a hand grip her shoulder, and the lantern moved away to her right; three shadowy forms moved with it.

When next she woke, a lantern was on the ground beside her, and someone was peeling off her sweat-sodden clothes. She grumbled a weak protest, but the person went on, drying her with a rough towel and then easing her into a long linen shirt. “It’s fever sweat,” a woman’s voice said. “You need dry things so you won’t chill again.” A warm dry blanket covered her, then the woman held a flask to her lips. “Go on—drink this.” Paks gulped it down and was asleep almost before her head hit the straw.

A hand on her shoulder and a voice calling her name roused her to sunlight dappling through green leaves. She felt solid to herself, aches and all. Stammel squatted beside her. “Come on,” he said. “You’ve slept long enough.”

Paks found her mouth too dry for speech. He offered a jug of water, and helped her raise her head to drink. She tried again; her voice was thinner than usual. “I—forgot the right strokes.”

Stammel grinned. “I was going to mention that. Tir’s bones, girl, a battle is no place to show off. Why do you think we teach you what strokes work?”

“I’m sorry—” she began.

“Never mind; more weapons drill for you, until you can’t forget it. We don’t want to lose a good private—”

“What!”

“Well, you did it in a backwards, idiotic way, but you hardly fit the ‘recruit’ category any more. I hope you realize you very nearly got yourself killed—and why didn’t you get that wound bound up before you nearly bled out?”